Saturday, July 11, 2009

Silent Unclear

I believed it to be a stack of things already written.  How subtle a metaphor.  
To be written in the blood, a den of thieves pertaining to the night.  A bit more 
is needed--never found, such
as language is/its/cent/er/of/grav/ity/in/di/vid/u/al/ly/ga/ther/
ed/or/we/'re/ga/ther/ed--in it. And it's true what they say:
never deny something open--
language is the vehicle of itself. Climb up the ladder.
Here is something more than instinct. Could we ask if
that were possible. Together again. A riddle, a somber
pressing weight. Meaning isn't carried over. Even as it
tends toward relations. Every word is every word, stripped
of community.
there is another angle here). Such is the way of heat. The trail
of a mirage.
N i g h t time is empty.
All this preoccupation with organization. Another four billion
to wipe it clean.
"It depends on how nuanced."
parallels may there be? From a revealed
source, a calm nuclear fissure.
Sent out a little messenger, chain to chain, up against a wall.
I as an element of the total writing of society. Incorporated.
A nod to the message received. Falsify any number of. The sum of
rupture, the o holy left omitted. Documents. A distinction between
object and sense datum. Ultimately its mechanisms orient the work toward
a justification. Not as itself. Known for its plasticity.

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